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For as long as he could remember, Mikey had hosted a shadow. This 'shadow' accompanied him every where he went, and stuck dutifully to his side. For this shadow, affectionately named 'Frank' - couldn't survive on it's own.
Now, Frank had been blind for ten plus years. The doctors could never quite diagnose the suddenness of said blindness, nor could they determine if it was 'permanent'. (This false hope particularly angered Mikey, but. That's a different story for a different day.) Either way, Mikey had only known the firecracker during the time he couldn't see.
So, he was used to escorting him just about everywhere.
(Despite Frank's demands for Mikey to: "-get a boyfriend, a girlfriend - SOMEBODY that'd treat you like the goddamned saint you ARE," instead of helping his 'sorry ass'.)
Each time Frank whined in protest as he grabbed his shirt, led him safely through a pep rally, and made a fuss to 'go on without him' - the bassist would calmly roll his eyes. Then, proceed to tell Frank that he'd done so. And, each and every time: Frank's heart would grow three sizes too big. Oh, how he longed to see the teasing gaze that matched that mild voice.
What could he say? He was in love with the kid. It didn't matter to Frank if Mikey ended up being a talking Zebra. He wasn't just his connection to the world, but the entirety of it.
He'd never admit it, though. He was convinced that Mikey deserved someone to lead him around with the same love and care in which he led himself.
So, come one morning when Frank wakes up to the glare of sun, in lieu of - well... black? He can't get ready fast enough. He screams at the stranger in the mirror, and picks dazedly at considerably tanner skin.
Huh.
All in all? He throws a shit-fit, calls his mom (who is inconveniently out of town, but begins to sob and promise to book the first flight home), and chokes down the brightest breakfast he can find. Nimble fingers shake against the shiny package of strawberry sprinkled poptarts.
He's too impatient to toast the fucking things, let alone tie his shoes by sight -rather than feel- (he's left with a mess of knots, but even those serve as a reminder of his newly found sight,). So Frank stuffs the poptart in his mouth, grabs his backpack, and goes to wait on the porch.
He's ten minutes early, he's trembling, and he can't decided whether to sit or to stand. He settles for slumping against the porch railing. His stomach is coiled tight, and when he hears the familiar scuff of Mikey's shoes from behind an overgrown fern, his eyes blur hot with tears.
Frank growls, furiously rubs at them, and snaps: "Tears later. I want to see my best friend."
And that's that.
He's still rubbing, frantic, and uncoordinated when the footsteps draw nearer still. Faster, now. And, hey. That's definitely Mikey's worried-pace. Frank drops his hands, jerks his head up, and violently digs his nails into the railing. His eyes are locked, tear-ridden and intense, on the most beautiful person he's ever fucking seen.
(That's saying something, considering he'd fallen head-over-heels for Wednesday Addams as a child. Bless her snarky lil' heart.)
Mikey freezes, blonde hair (seemingly) brighter than the sun - and eyes sweet. Sweet, and soft. So full of concern as their gazes lock. And... - Frank never meets the bassists gaze for more than two seconds, try as he might. Because, well. He's blind.
"Frankie...-" Mikey begins, voice hoarse.
"You're precious as fuck," Frank's eyes are blurring again, and his shoulders are shaking with suppressed tears - and. Was that a bark, or a laugh? He swallows, words rushed. "You look even kinder than you are. And... and, glasses? -" Frank supplies, smartly - storming down the stairs as Mikey storms up them.
The tow-head knocks him down. It's a mess of limbs and silent tears as Frank grasps at Mikey's jacket, pulling the hood up over his head. Just because he can see well enough to do so.
Mikey barks out a watery laugh this time, and Frank shoves his head back - cupping long, tan fingers to a smooth, pale neck. He stares, awestruck, at how pretty his friend looks when he laughs.
His teeth are white. Straight.
God-like.
"Teeth," Frank growls, a man possessed as he pulls and grasps. One hand shifts to hold the bassists face, fingers denting a crimson-stained cheek, and a thumb tugging at a plump lower lip.
Mikey feels... really unstable.
Because, well. It's one thing to obsessively crush over your beautiful, beautiful best friend when they can't see what they do to you.
It's another when they can scrutinize your every ridge and wrinkle.
"Yeah, I've. Got those," Mikey yelps when Frank suddenly shoves him backwards. He climbs up and over, straddling his stomach and pressing two palms to either side of his head - chest rising and falling in uneven increments.
"We're ditching." Frank orders, hazel eyes sharp. Calculating.
"M'so there," Mikey breathes, voice thick with an emotion that he'd rather not place. His cheeks are a vibrant, persistent red.
Sunshine locks, and cherry cheeks.
Frank wants to fuck him straight through the sidewalk.
He opts for a slow, glittering smile. His head tilts as he lords over his former 'protector' in a fashion that tells Mikey the roles have swapped in a ten-second-span.
Mikey wants Frank to fuck him straight through the sidewalk.
The bassist opts for a slow, bashful grin - head ducked and cheeks glowing pink.
He was so not going to spoil Frank's renewed eyesight by being a goddamned pervert. He was nothing if not supportive, and ecstatic - and, hi - since when did Frank have enough strength to yank them both up into a standing position?
...No, he was definitely going to spoil Frank's renewed eyesight by being a goddamned pervert.
Mikey stumbled. And, fumbled - failing to form words as he blatantly stared. (Not that this was anything new. But the fact that Frank was staring back - penetrating Mikey's every thought with a black glare-was.)
"Hi," Mikey croaked. "You... you 'can-"
"I can see," Frank agreed - forgoing a quick glance at the clear blue sky, or a quick peek at cute, chirping budgies yards from their feet to, instead: burn a hole into the side of his best friends' face.Quick, crafty fingers were wound possessively at the soft black fabric of Mikey's shirt.
Mikey's chest was heaving. His heart? Racing.
And Frank was watching.
"I can't stop fucking crying," Mikey chokes on a laugh, visibly embarrassed. Frank was taking quick inventory: His friend's tone matched his actions.
Mikey was honest.
Which, duh - but.
He'd never had a visual.
"You cry, I'll watch." Frank cooed.
Then, paused. Shifted his eyes around the yard before landing them back to his friends gentle features.
"That sounded -
"Not good?" Mikey offered, deadpan. They exchanged a blank look - and it felt so fucking wonderful to lose their shit in a fit of laughter.
...And, hey. It felt twice as good to be smothered in Frank's sudden bear-hug. His limbs were short, but sturdy. And, he was juuusst tall enough to rest his chin on top of Mikey's head when he ducked it to his chest. (He so, so wasn't. But Frank had taken the liberty of pulling Mikey down to his height in a clingy *tug*)
Frank had always been a handsy guy.
But, without the fear of accidentally knocking Mikey in the eye with his elbow? His inhibitions were so, so very gone. He couldn't, and wouldn't stop touching his best friend.
"I'm not going to stop touching my best friend."
A beat.
"You're on a roll, dude -"
"Shh... Michael, let me have this -"
Frank's grip tightened as he said it, voice silky. Low - far lower than it had any right being.
Mikey fisted the soft, pliant material of Frank's shirt. It raised the fabric away from olive skin, and had the punk slowly craning his head down at his friend.
Mikey didn't lift his gaze.
He needed a minute to will the flush from his face, the black from his gaze, and the pant from his lips.
He... really didn't trust himself not to do something stupid.
Hell, it'd been hard enough when Frank couldn't watch his every move.
"Hey," Frank prompted, soft. He nuzzled his nose affectionately to a mess of blonde locks, swayed the pair in place. "...Mikes. You don't have to hide, okay? I think your face is in the top ten faces. Of, like. All time."
"Dude, I'm. It's not -
"Mikey," And, alright. That'd definitely been a growl - "If you call me 'dude' one more time? I'll take matters into my own hands."
"Matters?" Mikey squeaked, whipping his head up fast enough to experience whiplash.
Big mistake.
Frank cupped strong fingers to one side of his neck so quickly, so skillfully - that Mikey hadn't seen it coming. He couldn't hide, now. And when the pink in his cheeks flamed to a burning crimson - he shut his eyes. Swore a little.
"There are no 'matters'," He spoke, stubbornly refusing to open his eyes. Frank's head tilted, and his gaze glittered -so soft, and so fond- of the sweet, bashful vision that was Mikey Way. "It's just weird. But, like. A great weird? I don't. Your eyes are fucking unnerving, dude, and I know it's not your - "
"...Well," Frank cut him off, voice soft. His breath fanned against parted lips. "I warned you."
And, true to form, Frank pulled Mikey down right as he pushed up - covering that sweet, stammering mouth with his own.
...He hadn't anticipated the buckling of Mikey's knees.
Thankfully, his reflexes held true. He caught the bassists waist in a one-armed hug, and pulled Mikey into his chest. Frank took advantage of the sudden gasp, sucking his friends tongue into the heated confines of his mouth.
And if Mikey's laughter was beautiful?
His whimper's were fucking sinful.
For as he regained control of his motor-skills, the taller of the two thawed -wound limp arms at a tan neck- and kissed his best friend as if he'd never kiss again.
Or, simply put: he battled that fucker for dominance.
Frank was having none of it.
And, he almost felt bad - seeing as it only took a sharp bite to the bassist's lip to have him squeaking, then slumping. What - seeing as Frank lapped and suctioned the reddened flesh to his mouth, nursing the wound with a hum. His eyes slid open halfway, watching his friend in such a hungry fashion that, well. If Mikey had seen?
He'd actually collapse this time.
Eventually, the pair broke apart for air. And, Frank took every opportunity to press sweet, chaste kisses across his friends jaw. Cheeks. Forehead.
And a last, lingering kiss to swollen lips.
Mikey pushed his head forward without thinking, subconsciously following Frank's lips with his own.
The guitarist released a hoarse, albeit melodic, laugh. Gently grazed his teeth at Mikey's jaw.
"Hi."
"Am I? Oh... oh, god. If this is a trip -
"Mikes," Frank chuckled, voice as warm as the arms that engulfed the thinner male. "No amount of weed can induce a trip that intense - "
"...You've obviously never heard of edible's - "
"Food? I've heard of food."
"Edibles are food. Pot-laced-food. If you would've let me - nngh," Frank affectionately rolled his eyes. Then? He swallowed the elder's words in a searing kiss, making sure to lift the lighter of the two off the ground this time.
...The results didn't disappoint.
Mikey may as well have consumed an edible. What - given the way his shoulders slumped and his legs latched at a durable waist. He was too distracted by the heated pulse of tongues -and the strong arms bracketed below his ass- to do much but revel in a fire that only 7 years of pining could produce.
Frank had the poor kid mewling and writhing between him and the dividing-wall of his neighbor's house before he let up for air.
Mikey was unhinged. His chest was moving erratically, and his eyes were wild. Dark and unfocused.
Frank pressed forward.
Their chests rose and fell in tandem, pushing together in a flush, intimate motion. Their foreheads met in the middle, and this time? Neither gaze shifted.
Not even Frank's, despite a sudden ringing of a bike's bell, or the squeal of a child caught in a pleasant game of tag.
For here, where he stood, pinning his best friend to the cool surface of the wall?
He'd forgo a few more minutes without sight. Because now that he'd seen?
All he wanted to do was feel.